


An Eye for an Eye (Makes Shawn Die)

by DwaejiTokki



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Abuse, Adult Language, Anal Sex, Beating, Burns, Complications, Delirium, Doctor - Freeform, Fellatio, Gen, Graphic Violence, Healing, Hospitalization, Hospitals, ICU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intubation, Kidnapped, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Bondage, Nurse - Freeform, Physical Therapy, Rape, Recuperation, Respirator, Surgery, Torture, Ventilator, Whipping, blowjob, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwaejiTokki/pseuds/DwaejiTokki
Summary: Henry and Shawn are kidnapped by someone from Henry’s past. And this someone is determined to get his revenge. Shameless Shawn whump. Warning: very graphic.TRIGGER WARNINGS: check the tags!!
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Part 1:**

Welcome to the Hotel Pain

Henry woke with a raging hangover.

He groaned and lifted his chin from his chest, smacking his cotton-dry lips. Where had he fallen asleep? His eyelids were glued shut, it seemed—he couldn’t remember having drunk so much since…well, he couldn’t remember ever having drunk so much. What had happened?

The last thing he remembered was…Shawn.

Yes, he’d invited Shawn over for dinner, but they’d had an argument about something trivial, and Shawn had pulled his storm-out-of-the-house shtick. Henry followed him to the front door, berating his behavior as Shawn yanked the door open and moved through it—and then suddenly froze stiff as a pole.

But only for a moment, as a split second later a terrible scream ripped from Shawn’s throat even as he toppled, rigid limbs convulsing. As Shawn fell, Henry saw the Taser electrodes twisted in the fabric of his son’s shirt.

He immediately took cover: dropped to the floor and army crawled to the coffee table, where he kept an unloaded pistol in the drawer. The bullets were stashed on the other side of the room. Henry shot a glance over his shoulder.

Shawn’s temporary paralysis was ebbing away, leaving him writhing and gasping in painful recovery. Henry, not seeing any culprit, detoured from fetching the bullets to aid his son. He moved forward, ducked low, and peered out of the window. He saw no one, but an abandoned Taser lay on the porch.

“Shawn!” he hissed. “Get over here.”

“I’m trying,” Shawn wheezed.

A noise from behind.

Henry whipped around, but too late. The last thing he saw was a gray blur, then blackness, accompanied by the distant blabbering of…

Shawn.

Henry shook his head, despite the pain of it. His eyes opened independently of one another, and couldn’t seem to focus. He was sitting upright, he finally realized, in a hard, straight-backed chair. Not his own. It took another long moment for his sluggish brain to decipher that tight ropes bound him to the arms of the chair, and he belatedly found that his legs were held fast as well.

He lifted his head, neck tensing painfully, and looked around the room. It was devoid of furniture but for his own chair, and the windows directly across from him were blinded with dusty black curtains. Henry turned his head slowly, wincing at the pull—he was sure he had whiplash from whatever they’d hit him with.

There, hands bound tightly with cords between the coils of the old rusted radiator and gagged with a red bandana, was Shawn. The young man lifted his chin in greeting, seemingly unharmed.

Henry’s tension dissipated a modicum, but he knew there was no time to rest. He needed to figure out where they were, and how to get out, and where whoever took them was, and whether he was armed and dangerous. Prioritize.

With his son’s safety first and foremost on his list, Henry immediately set to work at his bonds, testing their strength. He stopped when he caught Shawn’s movement: he was minutely shaking his head. Henry raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Shawn tipped his head towards the doorway, which was standing open.

Henry held his breath and listened for a moment. Someone was moving around in the next room, by the sounds of it.

He nodded once at Shawn to show that he understood, then continued working at his bonds.

Shawn shook his head more vigorously than before, but Henry shot him a glare, then averted his stare to the doorway again, still working in silence. Footsteps approached. Henry quickly ceased his movement and pretended unconsciousness.

As the captor entered the room, Henry resisted the urge to slit his eyes open and get a look. He would have to surreptitiously move his head, and he didn’t want to risk getting caught. The longer it took their captive to realize he was awake, the better off they would be.

The perp’s steps stopped suddenly, and Henry knew that he was standing beside his son.

“You ever taken a cock up the ass, pretty boy?”

Henry’s eyes snapped wide open, lips curled to snarl at the attacker—only to see that the man was calmly smiling at Henry. He pointed up to the corner of the room, and the elder Spencer, much to his chagrin, finally noticed the camera watching their every move.

The man, whom Henry took to studying, turned back to Shawn. “We’ll talk about that later, huh?” He patted his cheek. Shawn recoiled from the touch, glaring.

Henry had no idea who the captor was. He was tall and lanky, and didn’t look at all like he could have succeeded in taking both Henry and Shawn down as well as transported them to this location. But the ex-cop knew looks could be deceiving. And now that he scrutinized more closely, he spotted a distinct cluster of needle tracks on the inside of the perp’s elbow—a junkie. Drugs were more than enough to supply the strength and motive to kidnap two men and—what? Hold them hostage?

That had to be it.

And his terrorizing tactics were there to keep them in line while he made his demands to the police.

While Henry and the captor stared at one another—the former with controlled anger and the latter with an almost bemused smile—Shawn’s eyes darted between them, gauging the situation as it developed nowhere.

Finally, Henry broke the silence. “Who are you?” His voice was rough with disuse.

The captor blinked his watery eyes, then ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. He scratched his pockmarked forehead, looked toward the blinded window. Then he met Henry’s eyes again. “You forgot me?” he asked. Then his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Henry narrowed his eyes, once more taking in the man’s features and trying to match them to ones in his memories.

“It’s me. Gregory Burgess. Ring a bell?”

The ex-cop wracked his mind, but still came up with nothing.

“I don’t remember the names of all the deadbeats I arrest for drugs—or whatever I arrested you for,” Henry said in a clipped tone.

“ _NO_!!!” Burgess screamed so forcefully that both his captives startled. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “No, you never arrested me. Sometimes I wish you had—at least then I’d be—no, no.” He took several calming breaths, running callused hands down his angular face.

“Burgess isn’t ringing a bell,” Henry said calmly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The man ran his hands through his hair, looking once more towards the covered window. Abruptly, he took to tearing at his shirt, divesting himself of the ratty garment, turned inside out as he threw it across the room. Then he stomped towards Henry, standing directly underneath the bare lightbulb, and spread his arms.

“Look at me!” he spat, gesturing at his wan skin.

Henry did.

He was covered in scar tissue—a myriad of cigarette burns along the flesh between his ribs and jutting hips; a series of crisscrossed scars across his chest and back, which Henry saw as the man turned in place, the obvious result of several whipping sessions. But the scars looked to be very old, years at the least. And he still didn’t remember the guy.

The drugs must have addled his brain.

Henry met eyes with Burgess again. Cocked an eyebrow.

“You could have helped me,” Burgess said, face twisting in anguish. “Why didn’t you help me?!”

Henry’s brows creased. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to keep a level voice. He didn’t want the guy to get _too_ agitated. “I honestly don’t remember you. Why don’t you talk to me? Remind me. Tell me who you are, what happened. Who did this to you? How could I have helped? And when? Take a breath, kid.”

Burgess did. He paced a couple of steps, then left the room.

Before either Spencer could relax, he was back, wearing a new shirt, dragging a chair into the room. He placed it in front of Henry, then sat, hunching over with his sharp elbows on his knees. It looked ludicrously like the beginning of a dramatic one-man play.

“You’re a cop,” Burgess started. “One day, about twenty-five years ago—you were a rookie cop, I think…Well, not a rookie, but young, you know? You remember. You got a call for a domestic, right? I’m sure you do all the time. But you came to my house. I called you. I needed help.”

Henry’s frown only deepened.

“I was a kid,” Burgess continued. “I called the police because—because my dad hurt me. A lot. Every day. All he ever did was drink and beat me! That’s all. I couldn’t go to school most days because—because of the bruises.” He touched his face gingerly, as though expecting to feel the dull ache. “You came, after I called. But you didn’t do _anything_.”

“Are you sure it was me?” Henry pressed. “There’s a lot of cops. A lot of them respond to domestics.”

Burgess stood up and pushed his face into Henry’s. “I _know_ ,” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. Henry didn’t flinch. “I know it was you, I remember your face, and I remember your voice. You and your _stupid_ fucking voice telling me that I’m overreacting, that my dad loves me, that it was a one-off, that it was no big deal, that I need to _calm down_ , relax, don’t worry, that dad is going to feel so bad about it tomorrow, and it’ll never happen again. I. Remember. You.”

He stepped back, turned, and stared at the window curtains.

Shawn frowned through his gag.

Once Burgess had regained some semblance of emotional control, he returned to his chair in front of the immobilized Henry.

“Listen,” Henry said. “I don’t think it was me. I’m not saying you’re wrong about what happened, but you could be confused about who it was that responded to the call.”

“Anyway,” Burgess said, as though Henry hadn’t spoken, “I’m going to make you pay. I’ve thought for a long time about this. Twenty-five years, to be exact. I’ve had so long to make these plans, to perfect them. We only have a couple of days to get in a lifetime of torture, but I fixed it up so we could do it.”

“This isn’t going to end well for you,” Henry interjected. “Just let us go now, and I can help you get a deal. In fact, Shawn and I won’t even press charges. You’re sick, kid. Let us help.”

Shawn made a face that said he would rather do anything but.

“No,” Burgess said calmly. “Maybe I am sick. But this is the only thing that will help. Revenge is the only cure for my pain. An eye for an eye, Spencer.”

Henry shook his head. “You’ll only regret this later,” he said.

The man put a spindly finger to his lips. “ _Shh._ Nothing you say is going to stop this. I’ve already decided. And what I say goes. So you just sit back and relax, calm down, it’ll all be over soon, and this is a one-time thing, right? No big deal,” he said acridly.

Henry’s stomach sank as Burgess turned to his son.

“Stay away from him,” he growled. “You hear me? Hey! Stay away from my son!” He jerked at his bonds, but they held fast.

Burgess ignored him and continued to walk towards Shawn. He knelt on one knee in front of him. “Hey there, Shawn,” he said softly, as though speaking to a child. “Let’s talk for a second, okay?”

Shawn nodded emphatically, mumbling nonsensically through the gag and gesturing toward it with his fingers. His bonds were so tight that he couldn’t move his hands more than an inch in any direction, and his fingers were practically trapped between the coils of the radiator.

“I just want you to know how sorry I am that this has to happen,” Burgess continued.

Shawn shook his head at that, still mumbling.

Behind them, Henry spoke up loudly: “But it doesn’t have to happen! You don’t have to do this. Let us get you some help.”

Burgess ignored him. “But this needs to be done. It’s the only way that Spencer over there will understand. All he understands is violence. Most dads are like that. My father was, too.”

Shawn shook his head more vehemently, eyes wide and emphatic.

“If you touch him,” Henry growled, “I’ll kill you! Touch a single hair on his head and you’re dead, scumbag!”

“To make this easier for you, I’m not going to tell you anything about what happened to me. But I will explain this: what my father did to me, I’m doing to you. But only the things he did to me after I called your dad for help, okay? That’s fair, okay.”

Shawn continued to shake his head. Henry continued to yell expletives at Burgess, struggling in his bonds.

“Okay, Shawn,” Burgess said. “I’m going to leave for a few minutes to get everything together. That gives you some time to brace yourself. We’ve got a long couple of days ahead. We need to stay on schedule. And when we get started, it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

With that, the captor pushed himself up and went to grab the chair he’d placed in front of Henry and dragged it out of the room. It scraped ear-gratingly loudly the entire way. He shut the door behind him, but both Spencers knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

Henry and Shawn both desperately tugged at the ropes binding them.

“Shit,” Henry hissed, realizing that he wasn’t getting out of the chair any time soon—at least not on his own. He turned to whisper to Shawn. “Shawn! Kid, listen. Everything’s going to be fine, okay? Neither of us can untie ourselves. We have to get him to do it. Try to get him to untie you, and when he does, go for the eyes, Shawn.”

Shawn pointed at his gag, eyebrows raised for emphasis. Then he gestured towards his father as though to say he was the one with the mouth in working order, so why didn’t he do it?!

“Someone’s probably looking for us by now anyway,” Henry said. “He took us in broad daylight. Someone had to have seen something, called the police. They’ll get a trace, kid.”

The younger Spencer nodded, but didn’t look particularly convinced.

Just then, the door slammed open, bouncing violently against the wall. Shawn flinched at the noise, and again when Burgess stomped toward him, pupils blown and loosening a rubber tourniquet from his bicep.

“Hey!” Henry shouted. “Burgess, hey! Leave him alone!”

Burgess completely ignored Henry, instead looming over Shawn. “You’re a piece of shit,” he spat. “Worthless, no good, ugly, disgusting little asshole cunt. Ought to fucking kill you, stupid. You hear me?” He squatted down and smacked Shawn across the head. Shawn hunched his shoulders and drew his knees closer to his chest, averting his gaze, trying to look as submissive as possible.

Henry twisted his arms in the ropes, tearing more skin, to no avail. He tried to upset the chair to give himself more leverage, but when it didn’t budge he realized that the damned thing was bolted down. His threats and pleas fell on closed ears.

“Look at me!” Burgess hissed, clenching Shawn’s jaw between his fingers and wrenching his countenance upwards. Shawn reluctantly met his gaze, adopting a passive expression in the hopes of not antagonizing the man further.

Burgess abruptly spat in Shawn’s face. The young man recoiled, grimacing with disgust. He attempted to twist out of Burgess’ hold, but he jammed his fist deep into Shawn’s gut. The air whooshed out of his lungs.

Shawn coughed and wheezed through the gag, unable to double over due to his bonds.

The abductor scoffed. “Fucking pussy,” he muttered. Burgess yanked the gag down and stood up to walk to the window, giving Shawn a moment to breathe.

“Dude,” he finally gasped, working his jaw. He rubbed his face against his shoulder, trying and failing to wipe away Burgess’ bubbly saliva. “Dude, I totally get it. My dad was an asshole, and you gotta get him back, I get it, I do. But usually when you do the whole revenge thing, you have to be more subtle. Replace the sugar with salt. Glue all the caps onto his pens. Bouillon cubes in the shower head. Slash his tires. You know, that sort of…thing…?”

Shawn trailed off as Burgess spun on his heel and stomped back towards him.

Henry held his breath, watching intensely as the scene unfolded. Shawn was able to talk himself out of anything. Even this—Henry was sure of it.

There was no more room for talking.

Burgess lashed out with a boot, catching Shawn in the upper ribcage, just under his immobilized arm. Shawn tried to curl into a defensive ball, but his restraints prevented him from protecting his side and the back of his head, of which his abuser took swift advantage. Another kick ( _more of a stomp, really_ , said a lackadaisical voice in the back of Shawn’s mind), and then Burgess was on his knees, one hand clutching at Shawn’s hair to yank his head back and leave his face open for attack.

Right fist, white-knuckled and bony, rammed repeatedly into Shawn’s exposed face and body, leaving him breathless and bleeding. Behind them, Henry’s voice was giving out, his angry, desperate screaming nearly smothered by the strike of fist against flesh, a cloying smell of sweat and fear permeating the room.

Burgess abruptly switched tactics, using the hand twisted cruelly in the younger Spencer’s hair to slam his head back into the metal coils. A muffled “whoomph!” and Shawn sagged slightly, dazed.

Shawn didn’t—no, couldn’t—resist as Burgess promptly reached down and jerked the man’s legs out of their protective position, leaving him all the more vulnerable to whatever Burgess was planning. Henry cursed Burgess and his mother, his ancestors, his appearance, anything and everything he could think to offend that might draw his attention elsewhere. But no one was paying him any mind.

Not even his son, who was beginning to stir out of the momentary catatonia and realize some stranger was straddling his thighs.

“Stop,” he gasped out, bucking his knees. Blood streamed from his nose and lips, spraying as he spoke.

One didn’t need to be a detective, psychic or otherwise, to recognize that abject terror in Shawn’s slightly glassy eyes. Henry bit down on the urge to start bawling out of helpless fear and frustration himself.

Burgess slapped a sweaty palm over Shawn’s split lips, crushing his head back into one of the thin spaces between the radiator coils. With his other hand he made a show of slowly caressing the man’s quivering torso, shushing him as though he were a frightened horse. Henry took advantage of the sudden calm to try and talk the abductor out of his actions, to prevent the current situation from deteriorating again—or heading in that too-terrible-to-even-think-of direction he now feared it would.

“Hey, Gregory,” he said, trying to coax the man into at least listening. “Look, I know you’re hurt. You’re angry. You have every right to be. You have every right to hate me, to torture _me_ , not my son. If you hurt Shawn, you’re only hurting him like your father did to you, not hurting me. Don’t you want _me_ to feel the way you did? Let Shawn go, and keep me here. I won’t try to escape. You can hurt me, kill me. Just let my son go, please.”

Throughout his heartfelt speech, Burgess made no indication of listening, or even having heard; only absentmindedly stroked his captive, one hand still clamped over his mouth. Shawn had shot Henry venomous looks that clearly said that he wasn’t leaving Henry to suffer at the madman’s hands, and Henry returned the looks tenfold, clearly communicating that he wouldn’t allow Shawn to do, either.

Shawn’s attention was stolen as Burgess reared back and slammed a fist into the unprotected flesh of his belly. Instinctively he tried to whip into the fetal position, but his captor’s wiry strength prevented it.

The torturer removed his hand from Shawn’s mouth, allowing him to gasp like a dying fish for a moment. But then, both fists clenched, he resumed the assault, battering Shawn’s head back into the radiator, which sung resoundingly. Henry was suddenly reminded of those old movies that overlaid opera tracks on violent scenes—the next merciless strike snapped him out of it, and he railed against Burgess, voice cracking.

A strange gurgling, choking noise came from somewhere, and Burgess paused, one arm raised. With what appeared to be tremendous effort, Shawn tipped his head forward, struggling to breathe past the thick globule of blood that dropped with an audible _splat_ from his mouth to dribble down the front of his shirt. More crimson trickled from between his lips, dancing like a spider’s silken thread in the wind as Shawn heaved for air through his open mouth. Henry felt his stomach drop into the very bowels of hell. He desperately hoped that it was only a few broken teeth—rather than a severed tongue—or, God forbid, a ruptured internal organ. He spotted a smear of red against the ashen radiator behind Shawn’s head.

Finally, _finally_ Burgess seemed to sense that his victim had had enough. He lowered his arm and sat back on Shawn’s knees, watching in morbid fascination as he coughed and wheezed, little _hrrk-errk_ sounds that went straight through Henry’s chest like bullets. The younger man’s trembling fingers curled and straightened between the radiator coils, the inability to use them to physically push back the hurt from his forming bruises seeming more painful than the injuries themselves.

Henry’s tensed muscles were rock solid as Burgess reached into his back pocket and pulled something out of it. “Hey, hey,” he uttered, desperately trying to see what it was—despite really not wanting to know.

Burgess fastened a shock collar tightly around Shawn’s throat. Shawn didn’t offer any protests, seeming inclined to accept a nonviolent violation. Then the captor stood, joints creaking loudly enough to be heard even over Shawn’s ragged breathing, and pulled another collar from his other pocket. This one he crossed the room to lock around Henry’s throat, pulling it tight enough to strangle before taking a couple of notches off. Henry’s only reaction was to glare.

The captor wordlessly left the room.

Realizing that his taut muscles were beginning to cramp, Henry consciously took a breath and engaged in a military relaxation tactic: steadying his breathing, he uncurled his toes inside his shoes, then let his calves unclench, followed by his quivering thighs, burning core, then his shoulders; once his throbbing fingers loosened their white-knuckled hold on the chair’s arms, he turned to Shawn.

“Psst,” he whispered.

Brow furrowed and head hanging, Shawn tilted an ear towards his father. As he struggled to breathe, he shifted miserably, trying to find a position that hurt less.

“Don’t talk,” Henry whispered. “He’s got shock collars on us. Listen, just try to relax. I’ll work on getting us out of here, okay, kid?”

Henry might have believed Shawn hadn’t heard him if he hadn’t seen the barely perceptible nod. It was a testament to how the kid was feeling that he didn’t argue with or ignore him; or, Henry amended a moment later, because Shawn had already scoped out the place and come up as empty on ideas as he had himself. There was nothing in the room they could exploit, either to free themselves or to fight back—not unless Henry somehow managed to rip the bolted chair out of the wooden floorboards, or if Shawn possessed superhuman strength enough to do the same with the radiator. They had no way of knowing if anyone was looking for them. He tried to construct a timeline in his head, weighing multiple factors:

Had Shawn told anyone he was having dinner with Henry? (Probably complained to Gus.) Had Shawn made plans for that night or the following day—and was he flaky enough that it was plausible he’d skip out on those plans? (Probably with Gus, and he was _definitely_ flaky enough to not show up.) Had anyone seen the kidnapping? (It didn’t seem likely; while Henry was retired, most of his neighbors did work and/or travel.) Had evidence of the kidnapping been left at the scene? (Without getting a better feel for Burgess, the question of his sloppiness remained.)

But whether the police knew they were missing was less important than whether they would be able to find the Spencers. On that note, Henry was at a loss.

They were on their own.

He wiggled his arms in their bonds, staring intently at the way his muscles bunched beneath the rough coils of rope. His skin was raw, bleeding in some spots, but the rope was taut as ever. There was no point in even the facsimile of doing something; there was no way he was getting out of that chair without help.

Henry glanced at Shawn again, schooling his face into an expressionless mask. But Shawn’s eyes were closed as he concentrated on breathing shallowly. Soon, hopefully, he would drop off into sleep, uneasy though it would be. Henry decided that he ought to rest as well—just a few minutes of shuteye could do wonders for the body and mind. Hell, maybe he would come up with something in a dream that would help.

…

Both men jolted awake as the door slammed open, and both grimaced and bit back groans as pain seared through their stiffened limbs. An agitated Burgess stormed in, muttering to himself and pacing, not seeming to notice his hostages. He passed something between his hands, and Henry recognized it as a taser. Shawn curled tighter into himself as Burgess stomped past him, back and forth, back and forth.

Internally, Henry debated whether he should get Burgess’ attention.

He seemed distracted enough that he was leaving them be, for the moment at least. Henry decided to stay quiet.

After a few more paces, Burgess staggered to a halt, then backtracked and crouched down next to Shawn. His knobby spine protruded even through the thin material of his shirt, which, coupled with his pale, sickly complexion, gave him a distinctly Gollum-like appearance. Shawn mustered up the courage to glare at him steadily, fists clenched to hide the trembling.

Face neutral, Burgess slowly, almost tenderly, placed his spindly hands on Shawn’s drawn-up knees. In his left hand was the taser, held loosely with his first finger and thumb. Shawn didn’t move, scarcely breathed, refused to blink. Burgess applied pressure, encouraging Shawn to open his knees. He didn’t budge. His captor forced his knees apart, and Shawn decided to resist not that, but the urge to resist itself. Maybe if he went along with it, nothing bad would happen…

Once his legs had been spread apart, Burgess scooched forward so that his long body would prevent him from closing up shop again. Shawn nervously watched the taser, wondering where it would be applied, and when, and for how long. His eyes flicked up to Burgess’ face, seeking answers, hints at least, but his expression was still schooled into a blank slate.

Henry could see his son’s pulse, jackrabbiting at the jugular just above the shock collar. He was sure he had a heartrate to match. He bit his tongue hard, hoping, irrationally, that his silence could buy his son’s life and safety.

Slowly, Burgess reached towards Shawn’s midsection, and the trembling victim tensed and squeezed his eyes shut, sure that the tasing was about to begin. But it didn’t.

Instead, Burgess lifted the hem of Shawn’s T-shirt and fiddled with the fly of his jeans, zipping it up and down, up and down, up and down, up-down-up-down-up-down-up. Shawn was paralyzed, eyes trained raptly on the repetitive movement. But when Burgess finally lowered the fly and reached for the button, Shawn snapped out of his immobile state and began to struggle, lifting his legs and kicking at the man’s bony back with his heels.

He was tased for his troubles. Burgess pressed the taser hard against Shawn’s shoulder, holding it for three seconds before pulling away. He moved his fingers back to the button. Again, Shawn resisted, shock collar cutting off his loud protest and turning his voice into a kitten’s mewl, as he tried to leverage his legs in order to buck Burgess off.

Clicking his tongue behind his teeth, Burgess jammed the taser into his diaphragm, just below his chest. This time he held the taser there for much longer, watching Shawn’s spittle-crusted, bloody lips turn blue. Then he removed it, letting the seizing body beneath him melt into a shuddering heap. Shawn was too exhausted to fight back, only half-conscious as he gasped for breath.

It took all Henry had to not start his yelling again, since the collar would silence him anyway. He could only stare helplessly as the scene unfolded.

Burgess, once he had unfastened Shawn’s jeans and splayed them open to reveal his banana-printed boxers, moved his hands away. Before Henry could relax, and before Shawn had sufficiently regained his senses enough to realize what was happening, Burgess grasped Shawn by the hair and turned his head upwards, twisting his neck at an awkward angle. He bent forward and licked— _licked_ with his pink, vile tongue—along his captive’s jawline, from chin to earlobe. Henry’s stomach somersaulted, something inside him shriveled with disgust and fear, as Burgess’ puckered mouth latched onto the spot behind Shawn’s ear. Shawn wriggled uncomfortably, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block everything out—the pain, the humiliation, the sensations of Burgess’ kiss and his free hand, which had set aside the taser, as it slid up along his stomach, his ribs, chest, and found a nipple, tweaking and pulling it roughly.

Disgust roiled in his belly, rising panic clamored like bile in the back of his throat.

Adrenaline pulsed through his limbs, and Shawn raised his legs and pounded with his heels with as much strength as he could muster. Burgess let out a muffled grunt, more angry than hurt, and his hand left his hair to yank the shock collar up, strangling him. Shawn continued to fight until the dizziness overwhelmed him, more rapidly than he thought possible, his lungs burning. The adrenaline ebbed as quickly as it came, and Shawn twisted his bruised, bloody face up and allowed Burgess to continue kissing and fondling him.

Henry became suddenly aware of the wetness on his cheeks, and the tightness in his own throat and chest. He wanted to beg Burgess, to say something, to scream, but he found that nothing would come. His tongue sat like a rock behind his teeth, and he felt like an imposter—he wasn’t a father, but a voyeur, watching his son’s—some man’s—suffering and humiliation.

“You like it,” Burgess whispered, hot, sour breath accosting Shawn’s nose.

Shawn was determined to ignore him, to refuse to acknowledge him. He would not respond—not to his touch, not to his voice, not to the sick feeling in his own stomach, not to the knowledge that his father had working eyeballs in his skull. Nothing. The trembling in his legs was not a reaction to anything except the cold.

“Fucking pussy,” Burgess spat. “You’re a whoring little cocksucker, aren’t you?”

He sat back on his heels and unbuttoned his own jeans, pulling his swollen member out and stroking it to life.

“Show me how you do it,” he said, slapping him across the face. “Show me. Suck it.”

Still refusing to react, Shawn stayed still, shoulders hunched, eyes closed, fists and teeth clenched, breathing as little as possible, toes curled in his shoes.

Burgess grabbed his face, digging his thumb and fingers into the hinges of Shawn’s jaw, forcing his teeth apart. When the latter clenched his teeth harder, Burgess reached down to his banana-printed crotch and squeezed hard. With a ragged gasp and involuntary jerk of his legs, Shawn’s mouth fell open, and Burgess wedged his fingers back into the hinges of his jaw to keep it that way. Then he stood, knees bent and legs spread in an awkward crouching position so that Henry would have a good view of Burgess stuffing his already weeping cock into his son’s bloodied mouth.

“Suck it, fucking pussy. You fucking cocksucking whore.”

Shawn immediately choked, struggling to pull away, to turn his head, to kick and elbow his rapist away, to no avail. Burgess pulled back a little and allowed him to guzzle what air he could around his cock, then jerked his bony hips forward again. His other hand caught Shawn’s hair in a vice-like grip, keeping him in place as he rutted arrhythmically. Burgess gave Shawn a few seconds to breathe, harsh gasps that made his sides heave like a racehorse’s, then continued shoving his shaft in as deep as it would go.

Henry retched miserably, unable to tear his eyes away. Nothing came up, as useless as his failed words.

After what felt like forever, Burgess pulled out, grasped his wet cock and pumped it swiftly a few times before ejaculating on Shawn’s sweaty, tear-streaked face. Shawn instinctively recoiled, but he was still held fast by the jaw, salty-sour tang dripping into his mouth and stinging in the corner of his left eye, which couldn’t cry fast enough to wash away the residue.

But Burgess wasn’t yet done.

Once he had milked the last drop of his orgasm, he merely entered Shawn’s mouth again, repeating the exercise. Shawn focused only on finding places to breathe, snatching the smallest opportunity to suck air into his burning lungs, those instances where Burgess misjudged his length and accidentally pulled out and had to use a hand to guide himself back in.

Another forever later, which in actuality was a much shorter time than the first, Burgess grunted through a second orgasm, pulling Shawn forward as he pushed deeper, coming down his throat. He pulled out, releasing Shawn, who dropped his head forward and gagged, spitting and spluttering white spunk. Coughing and heaving, Shawn drew his knees up again and tried to wipe his teary red face clean on his shoulders and the crooks of his elbows.

Burgess calmly tucked himself into his pants and left the room.

Henry desperately wanted to say something, impart some kind of wisdom, some comfort, but he could think of nothing. He could only hope and pray that Burgess was done, would let his son rest a while. And, God, wasn’t that fucked up? Praying that his son could have a little downtime before the continuation of his torture, rather than that the SBPD would come a-knocking at the door to rescue them? Shame and helplessness squeezed his insides.

Worse, dread filled him to the brim as he heard the footsteps returning.

Burgess entered the room again, a smudged glass of water in hand. He made immediately for Henry rather than Shawn, who cowered and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, and Henry was relieved. Without a word, Burgess pressed the rim of the glass to Henry’s dry lips. The ex-cop merely glared, and if looks could kill, the captor would be obliterated, shattered like a mirror into a million trillion little shards like dust and blown away in the wind. Burgess didn’t acknowledge the hatred, only held the glass in position. At last, at a stalemate, Henry had no choice but to distrustfully drink.

It tasted sharply of metal, an acidic tang coating his tongue. But he drank it, slowly, knowing the longer Burgess attended him, the less he attended Shawn.

All too soon, the glass was drained, and Burgess pulled it away and left. Henry stared after him, willing him to just stay away.

But he came back with a second glass—or, rather, the same glass refilled with the same, slightly off-color water that Henry had drank—and knelt beside Shawn, who was doing his best impersonation of a fetus. Burgess tugged him upright by the hair and put the glass to Shawn’s grimacing lips. Shawn drank quickly, slurping noisily, quivering with pain, anticipation, and fear. Glass emptied, Burgess dropped his victim and went out to the other room once more, and the sound of glass against metal rang.

Shawn, shoulders shuddering, retched a few times, but he managed to keep the water down. He spat again, then resumed scrubbing his face against the filthy sleeve of his shirt. Henry tried to meet his gaze, but his son’s eyes were tightly shut.

In the other room, the sound of a chair scraping across wood filtered through the open doorway. With relief, Henry realized that Burgess was taking a rest, possibly to eat. That would give them some respite while they waited for rescue.

With a deep sigh, Henry closed his own eyes, trying to think of anything he might have missed. He wiggled his hips, trying to feel whether he had something in his pockets that could be useful. His phone was likely still at home, on the kitchen counter where he’d left it. If he had his wallet, it wouldn’t do them any good—not unless Burgess wanted a couple of credit cards, a library card, some memberships he rarely used anymore, a fishing license…it didn’t matter what was in the wallet, anyway. And he couldn’t think of anything else he might be carrying.

He wondered if Shawn had anything in his pockets.

He set his mind to trying to remember who exactly Burgess was—he was certain that he hadn’t had anything to do with him, the man was confused, fixated on the wrong man—but maybe Henry might have heard of the case from a coworker, or seen the case when he was rummaging through old files, something, anything. Gregory Burgess, domestic, child abuse, twenty-five years ago…Gregory Burgess, domestic, child abuse, twenty-five years ago…Gregory Burgess, domestic, child abuse, twenty-five years ago…

When that brought up nothing, Henry mentally pulled up an image of Burgess standing half-naked under the bare bulb in front of him, his thin, scarred body on display.

With particular focus on the face, he tried to reverse-age him to how he might have looked twenty-five years ago. Recalling how Burgess had gingerly touched his face during his story, Henry painted a blueish purply bruise over his left eye.

Henry’s stomach sank to his feet as the figure began to look dismayingly familiar.

He juxtaposed it with a boy from his memory, about twenty or twenty-five years ago, a skinny teen who hadn’t grown into his ears or limbs yet, his hair long enough to hide his face—cut in an emo-goth-rock band style, but without the black dye and excess gel. He had been sent there after a call about a domestic, and on arrival saw a drunk father nearly asleep in his armchair in front of the TV, which played a black-and-white western, and the teen waiting, sitting with his knees drawn up at the foot of the stairs.

Henry had thought he saw a bruise around the boy’s eye, but then on second glance had decided it was probably a shadow—and with a twinge of annoyance thought that boys shouldn’t have haircuts like that. He had first spoken with the father, who swayed on his feet and looked confused as to why there would have been a call to the police. Then he spoke with the boy, his father hovering behind him, and the boy had stuttered out his sob story: “Dad hit me.”

And, God, Henry _did_ it, it was _him_ , after all, just like Burgess said. He had taken on that patronizing tone that young men with too much authority and not enough experience used to speak to those younger than themselves, and explained to him that his father hadn’t meant it, that the boy had probably done something bad and gotten on his father’s nerves, and his father had probably had a long, stressful day at work, so just calm down, relax, no big deal, no need to call the police over things like that.

And then Henry left, and clocked out of his shift, and went home to his wife and his toddling son, and promptly forgot all about it.

A wave of dizziness hit Henry as he realized it _was_ his fault.

It passed slowly, replaced by an odd tingling feeling in the base of his neck. He frowned at the sensation, wondering why it was there.

The tingling spread warmly through him, and it dawned on his sluggish brain, still replaying that late-night encounter all those years ago in a manic loop (just calm down, relax), that the water had been drugged. GHB, the date-rape drug, most likely. (No big deal, it’s a one-off.)

Henry felt a strange, floaty sensation as his mind divided into distinct pieces: one could not stop agonizing over his mistake that night, while another part of himself berated that young cop who was too far a cry from the detective that he would become to deserve mercy, and still a third part of himself was firmly rooted, despite the drug, in the present. As his head lolled, he tried to look towards his son, to see how he was handling the drug, but it didn’t look like Shawn was affected yet, if at all. Maybe his water hadn’t been spiked.

He tried to say something, to reassure his son that everything would be okay, but what came out was a too-loud moan, quickly cut off by a paralyzing shock to his vocal cords. Shawn finally looked up, bloodshot eyes squinting in confusion and concern. His son wavered like a mirage and transformed into the sad, narrow twig that was Burgess twenty-five years ago.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut against the image and shook his head, coughing lightly.

As though that were his cue, Burgess reentered the room and glanced towards Henry, who opened his eyes and knew that he had to fight whatever drug was in his system. He couldn’t leave his son alone with that man, not even for a second, no matter what. With great effort, Henry lifted his head and leveled a glare at Burgess, who seemed neutrally satisfied with that. He turned to Shawn.

The younger Spencer shied away from the man as he approached, stomping heavily across the floorboards. Henry’s vision flickered with the effort of following the movement, but a flash of hope ignited in his chest as Burgess knelt and began to unwind Shawn’s bindings, freeing him from the radiator.

It was possible Shawn could overpower him, attack at just the right moment to blind Burgess, to incapacitate him at least momentarily while Shawn ran for help, for a weapon, for something, anything.

That brief flame of hope was extinguished almost immediately, as Burgess did not leave anything to chance. The moment the rope was loosened, he used one hand and a sharp knee to shove Shawn chest-first onto the floor, forcefully twisting his arms behind his back and zip-tying his wrists together. Shawn struggled half-heartedly, not wanting to submit, but also not wanting to encourage his captor to beat him again.

Burgess half-lifted, half-dragged Shawn by the elbows to the center of the room, depositing him under the light in front of Henry, who was having more and more trouble focusing. Their captor sat on Shawn’s back, leaning over him to whisper into his ear.

Everything after that was vague, echo-y—brief flashes of hazy memories like an old movie reel with water damage. A Gollum-like creature knelt over a prostrated blurry figure, like a vampire, like a wild animal, snuffling and grunting as it checked out its next meal, pawing at it and investigating the tender flesh hidden beneath those layers of colored textiles.

Some part of Henry was aware of what was happening, but a larger part of himself found it so much easier to pretend he was watching Animal Planet, some strange animalistic mating ritual in which in the aggressor took its pleasure and then decapitated and feasted upon its lover.

Because those otherworldly, echoing flashes of his son on the hard, rough floor at his feet, writhing and crying in pain and fear and humiliation under the cruel hands of his attacker couldn’t be real. Shawn’s clothes were firmly and wholly covering his body, not being torn away like rags and thrown across the room. Pale, spindly hands were not clutching and scratching his son’s skin, weren’t crushing him down on the floor so an engorged penis could enter him from behind, leaving streaks of red. His son wasn’t trying to escape, to crawl—more like inch-worm—away, receiving a beating for the attempt. The harsh breaths of both, the one with power and ecstasy, the other with fear and agony, were figments of his own perverse imagination.

None of that was happening, because if it were happening then Henry would stop it, would throw himself at the attacker and kill him dead to protect his son, but his body couldn’t move, and therefore none of it was real. It was a dream, a nightmare, an episode of sleep paralysis like Maddie sometimes got when Shawn was first born and had colic and she dreamed of smothering that baby until Henry took over feeding him so he would _live_ through his squalling, sopping infancy.

Henry tore his eyes away, found himself staring at a black void of nothingness where the window ought to be. The void spread, grew bigger and bigger and bigger until it was all-encompassing, and everything was gone.

…

Waking was a slow and painful process. His head pounded, his eyes seemed glue shut, and his mouth was filled with ashes. The silence was oppressing, and he thought his eardrums might burst. No, it wasn’t silent. There was a drumming sound, a pattering, steady and hard, like marbles rolling in a tin. Rain. It was storming outside.

Henry struggled to open his eyes, and finally managed the almost insurmountable task. Past his knees, he had a view of the bare floorboards, smeared with bad varnish. It looked almost red in some places. A real bad job. Whoever did it should be fired.

After a moment, he felt a little stronger, and was able to lift his head. He spotted a splattered pile of vomit not too far from him. Across the room, under the black curtains of the window, lay a discarded, crumpled shirt, brown-red-black-crusted. He turned toward the left, where the door was. It stood open, but he could not see past it. The radiator, with its loose coils of rope still hanging, looked lonely. Henry slowly turned his head to the right, and spotted first a pair of banana-print boxers, and then a single converse shoe, laces still neatly tied despite the absence of foot.

He blinked, mental gears grinding in tandem with the pounding of his migraine.

Henry’s head swiveled again, eyes roaming the room.

Radiator, ropes, door, vomit, window, curtains, bloody shirt, banana shorts, shoe, banana shorts, bloody shirt, shoe, vomit. Radiator, shirt, shorts, shoe. Banana shorts. Shoe. Door. Vomit. Window curtains shirt door.

The floor in front of his feet was smeared with drying, tacky blood.

A trail led towards the door, as though a leaking bag had been dragged outside.

Henry looked back at the radiator, the dangling, loopy ropes.

“Sh…n?”

Heart in his throat, Henry suddenly realized that his son was no longer with him in the room. The only sound was the rain. There was a trail of blood, from a body being dragged, from his feet to the door. Bananas danced dizzyingly as Henry stared at the boxers, willing his son to appear somewhere, anywhere, popping up and delightedly exclaiming that Henry was his “big ol’ papa monkey.”

Where was he? Where was he? Where was he? Where was his son?

Caught in a loop, Henry tried to stand, tried to leave the chair and look for him, but found he was still as stuck as ever.

A door opened and slammed shut, the sound of rain briefly sounding like television static before being muted again by the walls. Henry froze, staring wide-eyed at the door, waiting for those stomping footsteps to find him.

Burgess entered the room, shaking water off his coat. He spotted Henry awake, and seemed momentarily taken aback, but then approached and stared at the man coolly.

Henry demanded—or tried to demand—where his son was. His voice crackled and popped like twigs in a campfire, his questions nothing more than a whisper of air, leaves rubbing together in the breeze.

Burgess sighed. “It’s too bad you fell asleep so early, Spencer,” he commented. “You really missed out on some fun. But I guess that’s my fault—I overestimated the dosage. Sorry about that. But you seem fine now, right? No big deal.”

Henry’s chest felt tighter than ever. “My son,” he hissed. “Where is my son?”

Burgess cocked his head to the side and knelt down in front of Henry, placing his pale hands softly on Henry’s lap to keep his balance. “What would you do,” he asked, “if I told you that he’s already dead? Already buried deep in the woods where not even hikers will find him?”

The elder Spencer stared, shoulders rigid. His lips sagged and trembled at the idea, but his eyes glinted hard as he tried to determine whether Burgess was telling the truth.

“What would you do,” Burgess continued, drawing out the words almost playfully, “if I already killed him? Fucked him to death? Fucked him right up the ass until he bled out, choked on his own vomit and my come and his blood and sweat?”

As he spoke, Henry could swear that he himself were experiencing it, the choking, the constriction of his diaphragm, his lungs and chest, his throat.

Burgess grinned. “What would you do if I said that I strangled him while I fucked him, right in front of you, right under your nose, and you did nothing but sit there and watch while your son died, crying and begging like a little bitch? Like the little cocksucking whore he is?”

Henry jerked in his bonds, fingers itching to grab the man and strangle him, to beat him and fuck him and kill him like he’d done to Shawn. He wanted to hurt him until he led him to Shawn’s body—to Shawn, alive, not dead—and then he would kill him—no, arrest him, and he’d live out his life behind bars where he belonged.

But Burgess only laughed at his impotence, a cruel hard laugh like icy steel that cut like a samurai sword through Henry’s heart.

Then he stood and walked to the window, kicking the bloody shirt—his son’s _shirt_ , his _son’s_ shirt, _his_ son’s shirt—aside. He flung the dusty black curtains open, allowing gloomy light to permeate the room.

Burgess stepped aside so Henry could look out.

The sight was like a physical force, a gut-punch—because even through his utter relief at seeing his son alive, just on the other side of the glass, he recognized the dire situation and that Shawn’s life was in peril.

His hands were bound over his head to the porch roof, and the rope was in turn wrapped tightly around the wooden support beam, clamping Shawn tightly against it. The wind blew cold rain onto his bruised, battered skin, all revealed in the absence of his shirt. His jeans hung low on his hips, the button probably still undone—or broken, more like, though Shawn was facing away so Henry couldn’t tell—not that it mattered whether the button was broken or not. No, what mattered was that Henry could see the dark stain blooming on the seat of his pants, even as the rain was making quick work of soaking through the rest of the fabric.

Shawn miserably shifted his weight to his other foot, turning his head against the icy blast. Past his violently shivering form, Henry could make out nothing but trees.

There was no one around to help.

“You’re killing him,” Henry whispered in his broken voice. “You’re killing him, please, you’re killing him. Please don’t kill him, please, please…”

But Burgess had taken to ignoring the man again, and swiftly left the room, pulling his hood over his head. The front door opened and shut.

Outside, Shawn turned his face towards the rain to avoid the oncoming storm that was Burgess.

Henry tried to close his eyes against the sight of Burgess holding up a length of cable, the sort used to connect a DVD player to the television, though the color-coded connectors had been cut off, leaving the sharp copper wires poking out of the rubber. He broke down, sobbing, head hanging. But the terror only mounted; he couldn’t leave Shawn to face it alone, he couldn’t willfully abandon his son to that fate, to ignore what was happening. He couldn’t leave his son to save himself.

But he could still cry for him.

Henry’s heart hammered painfully as Burgess flicked the cable, as though testing its versatility. Bile rose in his gorge as he watched a hand rise up. At the instant the arm swung down, the black cable blurring invisibly in the darkness, Shawn’s back arched, and vomit overflowed in Henry’s mouth, dribbled down his shirt and lap, splashing hotly, wetly, and trickling down his legs like piss.

Still he couldn’t allow himself to look away.

_One_ , a detached part of himself somewhere noted.

Burgess raised the cable again, swung it down. Shawn’s yelp was choked off by the collar, his tense body trembling and thrashing in a desperate bid to escape, to just sit down for a moment to rest, to rest, to rest.

_Two_ , Henry’s counter counted helpfully.

Henry stared.

Hand up, hand down. Back arched.

_Three_.

Hand up, hand down. Shawn arched his back, then tried to shift his body away, nearly twisting his arms out of their sockets.

But Burgess proved to be just as adaptable, and flicked the cable up and downward with a diagonal slant, still striking Shawn across the back and leaving a fourth stripe.

_Four_.

Shawn seemed to give up then, realizing the futility of resistance. He clung instead to the post, nails digging into the wood as though to steady himself. With each strike, his back arched, but he had nowhere to go, and thus he merely flinched and pressed his stomach against the cold wet wood. He gritted his teeth and tried to sob quietly, the collar stealing his voice, his breath. Burgess kept hitting him, hitting him, hit-hit-hit-hitting him until he forgot about the collar, opened his mouth to wail and scream, but he had no air and so his mouth hung open in a wordless, soundless plea.

Henry had lost count around thirty-two, which had been forever ago. He had run out of tears, run out of vomit. He had nothing left but a prayer on repeat: _pass out already, kid, just pass out already_!

When Burgess finally, _finally_ , finally stepped back, Shawn’s back and sides were a mess of bleeding welts, angry red-black-blue-purple skin. The rain continued as relentlessly as the whip, sapping Shawn’s strength.

Shawn was going to die, and Henry couldn’t stop it.

The thought should have angered him, saddened him, elicited some kind of emotion. But Henry was tired, exhausted. It wasn’t that he didn’t care anymore. He was just worn down, empty, used up, dried up. He was powerless, and perhaps it was time to accept that. He had long given up on trying to escape—the ropes had drawn blood and felt tighter than ever, and he was almost certain he had fractured something or other in his earlier attempts.

Burgess wound up the cable and stuffed it back into one of his oversized coat pockets. Then he stepped towards Shawn, who was hanging limply from his wrists, sides heaving. Henry knew he was still conscious— _God, why was he still conscious_?—from the way he flinched as Burgess’ hands traced up from his hips, skittered across his ribs, and wrapped around his torso. Burgess bent his head forward and kissed him again, reaching up and holding him by his soaked hair to keep him in position. His other hand slid downwards, and from the movement Henry _knew_ what he was doing to his son—again.

Several agonizing minutes passed as Shawn shuddered in Burgess’ cold grip.

But finally, Burgess released Shawn, wiping his apparently soiled hand across the victim’s face and down his chest, then reached up with both hands to free Shawn. The young man crumpled to his knees, hunched over, exhausted, trembling, arms crossed beneath him to protect himself, to deny Burgess the ability to bind his wrists behind his back again. Burgess grasped him by the hair and pulled him upright, then dragged him out of sight of the window.

A moment later, the door opened and slammed, and heavy steps interspersed with harsh gasps and stumbling, faltering treads rapidly approached. Burgess dragged Shawn into the room, then dropped him at Henry’s feet. Shaking water from his coat, Burgess wordlessly left them alone.

On his knees, Shawn curled tightly into himself, hiding his face and arms, his striped, bleeding back on full display. His breaths rattled wetly, broken occasionally by small, childlike sobs that escaped the notice of the shock collar.

Henry instinctively tried to reach out for him, to gently touch his head and soothe the pain. Instead he was stuck staring down at him, unable to find the words to comfort him.

He glanced toward the door. Everything was quiet. Then he looked up at the camera, and knew what had to be done.

Henry tapped his toes on the floor twice to get Shawn’s attention, but it didn’t work.

“Psst,” he said. “Psst, psst!”

Finally, Shawn acknowledged him, turning his head so that he could see his father out of the corner of one bruised, swollen eye.

“Quick, untie me,” Henry whispered. “Come on, kid. Untie me. Come on.”

Shawn looked confused, but Henry pressured him, mustering up his _disappointed_ voice, though it broke his heart to see his son wince at the tone. But Shawn managed to get his limbs in gear, painstakingly pushing himself up, using Henry’s vomit-soaked knee for leverage to make it the rest of the way. It was like watching news footage of someone reaching the peak of Mount Everest: impressive, inspiring, but not enough of either of those to warrant a personal celebration.

He resisted the urge to badger Shawn. It was already clear that he was struggling, despite his focus and determination. They couldn’t afford distractions.

Henry’s eyes darted back to the door. Still no sign of Burgess.

He looked down again and grimaced at the state of Shawn’s hands, the nails torn and ragged, or else filled with black blood, fingertips bleeding and splintered.

He bit his lower lip and glanced up at the camera again. If they were lucky, Burgess wasn’t paying attention to his monitors, or at least didn’t realize what Shawn’s goal was.

Shawn made it upright enough to reach his father’s wrist. Henry encouraged him to pick at the knot, and to hurry. A small crease in Shawn’s brow appeared as he tried to untie his father. He put all his strength into the task, head lolling onto his shoulder as he devoted himself to it, ignoring the pain.

After a moment of zero progress, Henry was ready to cry again.

But then Shawn averted his attentions elsewhere: Henry’s pockets, which he searched for something to aid him. Henry could kick his own ass for not remembering it, but luckily Shawn found what he was looking for: his father’s swiss army knife. He struggled to flip a blade out, but eventually managed it by utilizing Henry’s intact thumbnail. Shawn’s cold, clammy hand left a streak of red on Henry’s hand.

Just as Shawn was about to start sawing the ropes, the sound of footsteps startled them both. Shawn panicked and nearly dropped the knife, but recovered in an instant and shoved it into Henry’s hand, the blade pointed towards the rope. Henry clenched it in a bid to hide it as Shawn wrapped an arm around Henry’s calf and buried his face in his lap.

Burgess appeared and strode across the room. Without a word, he harshly yanked Shawn away, practically throwing him towards the radiator. Shawn scrambled up onto his hands and knees, but Burgess was almost immediately upon him, dragging him by the hair to the radiator and tying him again with the ropes.

As he crouched down, Henry got a good view of the thing bulging out of Burgess’ back pocket. Henry desperately and awkwardly sawed at the ropes around his left wrist, keeping an eye on Burgess to make sure he didn’t get caught.

Of course he was nowhere near fast enough, and once Burgess had immobilized Shawn again, he reached back and pulled out the butane blowtorch, showing it to his victim. Shawn didn’t seem to recognize it for what it was, but knew to be afraid of what it might do.

Henry _sawed_.

“Sorry, Shawn,” said Burgess, in the friendly tone he’d used before he started the torture. “I wouldn’t resort to using this, which isn’t exactly the same, but I don’t smoke. Asthma, y’know?”

He set the torch down by Shawn’s hip, then grabbed the waistband of Shawn’s sopping wet jeans, pulling them down perfunctorily, like he was skinning a rabbit. As he slid them down over his knees and to his ankles, where he left them to weigh him down and shackle him further, Shawn’s panicked eyes met Henry’s over Burgess’ scrawny shoulder.

Henry was still working on the first knot.

Burgess planted one knee on Shawn’s bunched up jeans, trapping his feet and, by extension, his legs. Shawn could move his knees from side to side, up and down like butterfly wings, but twisting and kicking his way free was another matter entirely. Burgess, knowing this, straightened his other leg until Shawn’s right knee was trapped between the radiator and his captor’s shin, leaving his naked, battered body totally vulnerable, waiting for whatever torture was to come.

He held up the torch and turned the gas valve on the back of the nozzle. A hiss of gas releasing, and Shawn’s trembling renewed. Pointing the nozzle away from them both, Burgess pressed the red button to ignite the white-blue flame, then adjusted the size.

Shawn shook his head like a broken bobble-head and shrank into himself as Burgess turned back. He swung his left knee towards his body, trying to protect the sensitive flesh of his belly and thighs, as well as the place in between.

“Be still,” Burgess warned him, “or I might burn something I wasn’t planning on burning.” Burgess put a hand on Shawn’s knee and pushed it out of the way, moving the torch steadily downwards.

Behind him, Henry finally snapped through the first knot, wrestled his arm free, and began to slash at the ropes holding his other arm.

Shawn’s scream was cut short by a paralyzing shock to the vocal cords. He bucked and twisted under Burgess, who pulled back and readjusted his grip and his legs, using his leverage to hold Shawn down. He applied the torch again, and this time when Shawn bucked he couldn’t knock Burgess off-balance.

The smell of cooking flesh filled the room, burns blistering across Shawn’s stomach and thighs. His screams were nothing but high-pitched keens made at the top of his throat, whose vibrations escaped the detection of the shock collar. He could no longer fight, merely tried to convince Burgess to stop by shattering his eardrums.

Henry finally bent and cut his ankles free, making much quicker work with the use of both hands.

Burgess did not notice Henry’s mission coming to fruition, too focused on keeping a bucking, writhing Shawn still enough to properly administer the torch.

With a roar cut short by his own shock collar, Henry rushed the few steps across the room and made a running tackle at Burgess. The blowtorch skittered across the floor and went out, luckily. Burgess, crushed under Henry’s weight, snapped out of his shock and began to fight, all elbows and knees.

But Henry didn’t give him a chance.

Grabbing Burgess’ head between his strong hands, he repeatedly smashed his face against the floor, again, again, again, again-again-again-again- _again-again-again_ …All Henry could see was red: he poured out all his anger, helplessness, horror, shame, frustration, desperation, _everything_. Long after Burgess had gone limp, his face pulverized, blood pooling under his head, broken teeth dropping from his mouth like yellow pearls, Henry continued slamming his head into the hardwood floor.

Finally, Henry sat back, sure that Burgess wouldn’t be getting up again.

Then, with a start, he remembered that Shawn needed him.

He stumbled over to Shawn, and immediately recognized the signs of shock—ashen pallor, rapid breathing, dilated pupils, and agitation. Shawn was still shaking his head, staring up at some invisible shadow in fear, still keening.

Henry ripped his own shock collar off, then more gently removed the one around his son’s bruised throat, speaking to him softly but firmly in an attempt to call him back. “Look at me, Shawn. Look at me. It’s over. I’m here. Look at me. I’m here now.”

He resisted the urge to survey the damage until he could get Shawn unbound and lying flat. Henry left him for a moment and came back with the pocket knife, and cut him free from the radiator. Then he helped him scooch away a little so he could lie down, and Henry pulled the wet jeans completely off.

Now his son was naked as the day he was born, covered in blood and gore like he was then, too. Only this time it was completely unnatural, and terrifying.

Henry looked him over, staving off the effects of shock himself so he could focus on what needed to be done.

He needed to apply emergency first aid.

“Shawn,” he said, placing a hand on his clammy brow, “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m just going to find some blankets for you. Stay here.”

If Shawn heard he made no indication.

Henry hurried into the other room, fighting the urge to go back and stab Burgess just to make sure he was really dead, that he wasn’t just waiting until Henry left to get up and start hurting Shawn again.

His search quickly ran into a dead end. He found himself in a two-room shack in the middle of nowhere, if the trees outside were any clue. On the far wall was a map marking their location in the Los Padres National Forest, and beneath that a small table on which sat a television displaying the Torture Room, where both Burgess and Shawn lay incapacitated—the former dead, the latter dying. In the kitchen area was a pile of dirty dishes, some snack wrappers, and a pack of cigarettes. Henry rummaged through the cabinets, and to his luck found a first aid kit hanging on the door of one, and some towels folded into another. He took these back to Shawn.

Kneeling next to him, Henry snapped open the plastic case and dumped the contents of the kit. It looked woefully insufficient. A blister pack of Tylenol, a strip of alcohol wipes, a few packets of antibacterial ointment, a single foil blanket, various sized Band-aids and gauze, a pair of disposable gloves, tweezers, a thermometer, antihistamine cream, and cough medicine. He checked the case again, but it was empty. Everything he had on hand was spread in front of him, and it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Henry rolled up one of the towels and placed it under Shawn’s head—not just for comfort, but because he had a sluggishly bleeding gash. Then he opened the gauze, placing them over the burns across his belly, down over his hip, in the crease of his groin, and along the inside of his thigh, where they stuck without the need for tape. Then, feeling exceptionally useless, Henry shook out the foil blanket and draped it over Shawn, tucking it in under his shoulders, elbows, and knees.

When he sat back from making sure Shawn’s feet were covered, he noticed that Shawn was looking at him—really noticing him. Except for some disconcerting expression in his gaze, Henry felt relieved.

“Shawn,” he said. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to fix you up, good as new. Just stay with me, okay?”

Shawn slowly blinked. “When…when are we…” He took a shuddering breath, brow creasing with pain. “Home?” he finished.

Home.

Henry belatedly realized that he needed to call for an ambulance.

“In a bit,” he said. “In a bit…Wait here. I need to make a call, okay?”

Kicking himself, Henry staggered back into the other room, eyes searching for a phone. The walls were bare, counters and table showed no sign of one. But in the corner next to the sink, Henry found the emergency radio, and went to it.

Praying it worked, Henry turned the volume button. Static burst to life, and he inwardly cheered. He held the radio up to his mouth, depressed the talk button, waited two seconds, and initiated the call.

“This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

He released the talk button and waited, heart hammering. The static continued steadily, unbroken.

After a few seconds, he licked his lips and tried again.

“This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

He waited again. Protocol was that he kept trying until he reached someone. But he needed to go back and check on Shawn.

“This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

He waited. Still no response.

With a stressed sigh, Henry set the radio down, turned the volume up so he would be able to hear it from the other room, and went to Shawn. If he didn’t hear back soon, he would have to carry his dying son to civilization, wherever it was.

Shawn opened his eyes as Henry crouched down beside him.

“We’re waiting to hear the sirens,” Henry told him. It wasn’t a lie.

Shawn’s eyes slipped closed, and a lump formed in Henry’s throat. He swept a hand across Shawn’s forehead, brushing his matted locks of hair back, and then started back to the ham radio. He stopped and turned back, looking at the prone corpse that once was Burgess. Henry approached, knelt, and patted its pockets, looking for a cell phone. But no luck.

He took a few steadying breaths, then returned to the kitchen and depressed the talk button.

“This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

Static.

“This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

Static.

Chin trembling, Henry mustered his gruffest detective voice. “This is Henry Spencer, SBPD, calling from Los Padres, west Ranger station. Does anyone copy?”

Static.

Then a burst, a click, and more static. A voice.

“Henry Spencer, this is VIP Jones, go ahead.”

He nearly wept with relief, but managed to control himself and explained the situation as succinctly as possible, only needing to break once to tell the full story. Jones promised to get a chopper and police out to their location asap, and they ended communication with the mutual agreement to stand by for further information.

Henry hurried back to Shawn, needlessly adjusted the foil blanket, and stroked Shawn’s hair gently, as though to erase the memory of being pulled around by it so many times in the past few hours.

“Help is on the way, kid,” he said. “Stay with me.”

Shawn, pale and trembling, huffed out what could have been a tiny laugh.

“C-can’t s-s-st-stop-p sh-sha-a-king…”

“That’s okay. Stay with me, kid. Don’t you dare go into shock. Stay with me.”

It was over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2** :

Once More, With Healing

_An unwelcome touch, pressure—intensifyingwhatisthat?snake?whatisthat?!—on his penis. Shawn wanted to buck and kick the hands away, stop the progress of a probing alien invasion. He didn’t want it, he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t into it, he couldn’t see who was touching him, didn’t need to see, didn’t matter who because he didn’t want that touch getawaygetawaygetaway GETAWAY. The hands left, but the pressure stayed._

…

_They were coming. Shawn could see them moving, floating, standing, out of the corner of his eye. They were waiting—waiting for him to close his eyes. They wanted him to close his eyes so they could approach him, take his blood. They were going to take his blood and his organs and his eyes and take them away from him and he wouldn’t have anything left but bones and skin and there would be nothing left of him. So he refused to close his eyes. He fought the drugs they pumped into him. They all looked the same, blurry shadows standing at the edges moving, floating, standing. Waiting._

…

_A man in a suit was talking to him. “You’re in the Intensive Care Unit,” he explained, slowly and carefully. But Shawn knew it was a lie. The reason he was in a bed, on a ventilator, hardly able to move, was that he had been drugged and kidnapped. It had all started in the Psych office; at least, he thought it was the Psych office, where he'd been abducted. At some point he'd managed to escape but was re-captured and taken to a hospital far outside the country. He knew that he must have done something wrong, to be held with no hope of escape and lied to, but Shawn had no idea what it was._

_…_

_They were peeling him, stripping his skin from his flesh. Shawn tried to escape their clutches, scream for help, move, anything, but he was paralyzed. The buzzards continued circling him, tearing him open, plucking his organs out, even as he sobbed in terror. One finally noticed and took away his eyes so all he saw was blackness._

_…_

Shawn woke with a raging hangover. What, did he go to Mexico? He definitely needed to lay off the tequila. _No más tequilas, gracias_ , _estoy crudo…_

He was groggy, sore, and heavy all over, and his head and mouth felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Shawn tried to lick his dry lips, but found that his tongue was too big to move. Dentist visit gone horribly wrong?

He subverted his energy to opening his eyes.

The room was dim, with muted natural light diffusing the darkness to his right. As his eyelids slowly peeled back, feeling gritty with too-long sleep, vision a little fuzzy from dry eye, he saw a little more: he was undoubtedly in the hospital, if the setup was any indication: a whiteboard with staff names scribbled into red-ink rectangles mounted high on the off-white wall, and a reflection of light across a saline bag hanging in his periphery. He pointed his eyes down along the length of the bed, thankful for the pillows that propped up his head and shoulders just enough that he could see that he was bundled under at least two heavy blankets, except for his left arm, which was bandaged like a mummy and resting on a pillow tucked closely to his side. The IV line snaked under the gauze and was held in place with tape. Crossing his eyes slightly, he saw that he was intubated, and briefly marveled at it. How had it been the very last thing he noticed?

Shawn was distracted by a quiet noise to his right, and managed to twitch his head slightly so he didn’t have to strain his eyeballs out of his fuzzy skull to see what had caused it. His mother was curled up in the hard-backed chair at his bedside, snoring softly. Her elbow sat precariously on the edge of the armrest, her head leaning heavily onto her fist and wisps of unbrushed blond hair obscuring her haggard, lined face. She looked like a toddler’s doll, left crumpled at the edge of the tea table, ready to topple over in an instant. He was slow to realize a second figure sitting in the chair next to his mother. Henry was slumped in sleep, too, his gauze-wrapped arms folded over his chest, chin resting on his collarbone, face in shadows. A stark white butterfly stitch was stuck to his temple, where a jagged red line marred the skin.

A shudder rippled through his core as an unbidden memory flashed into his mind’s eye. Shawn quickly tried to shut it down, slamming his eyelids shut, summoning images of tacos and jerk chicken and pineapples and Juliet laughing at something he’d said and Gus giving him The Look, but the memory hit back in full force, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His lungs shriveled and burned inside him, stomach revolted, bowels clenched, scrotum shrank with the onslaught of anxious fear; he felt hot and cold all at once; his heart was beating so fast and hard it was going to burst like the egg he and Gus snuck into the teacher lounge microwave—he saw the shadow appear behind his father, who was reaching to help him, and Shawn tried to call out to warn him—Look out!—but it was too late—the crowbar was nothing but a gray blur as it came crashing down on Henry’s head even as he noticed Shawn’s terrified gaze and turned to look behind him—the sickening sound of its impact, the finality of it, the _thwunk_ that could have killed his father right there, Henry bleeding on the rug—blood or brains? blood or brains?—but he’s still breathing “ _Get up!_ ” and he’s bleeding but he’s still breathing “ _I said, get the fuck up!!_ ”—Shawn tried to roll over and help him, put his hand over the wound to make the blood stop pooling around his head—a rough grasp on his arm forced him dizzily upwards, hot stinking breath in his face yelling commands and he felt paralyzed and sick with fear, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move—

“…not real. Whatever it is, it’s not real, Shawn. It’s okay, Goose…”

A familiar voice—his mother’s—was talking softly near his ear, a gentle hand stroking his hair back from his sweat-sheened forehead, and then a warm cloth on his face. He desperately took refuge in these sensations. Slowly, his tensed muscles began to loosen, giving way to weak little tremors throughout his limbs that he hated because he wasn’t cold and he wasn’t scared anymore but he couldn’t stop it. So embarrassing—but not as embarrassing as the hot wetness leaking from the corners of his eyes that someone was mopping up for him, _ugh_ …

The breathing machine worked better when his sore jaw stopped clenching around the tube, and he felt his aching lungs expand, receiving the holy gift that was oxygen. As he calmed, his heart rate slowing, stomach moving back into its assigned place, he could hear someone over the low, comforting intones of his mother’s voice, and knew a stranger was in the room with them, fiddling with the machinery apparently sustaining his life while he had checked out of Hotel Reality.

He shored up the strength he needed to open his eyes again, and saw his mother give his effort a watery smile before the newfound brightness in the room forced a retreat.

“It’s too bright,” he heard his mother say.

“Okay,” said another woman—the nurse, most likely. “I’ll dim it just a bit.”

Shawn waited for the footsteps to make their way back to his bedside before he tried again, squinting just in case.

His mother smiled with more relief that time, her body partially obscuring his father, who was hovering silently but anxiously in the background. But Shawn’s attention was caught by the nurse on the other side of the bed, who began to ask him annoyingly routine, yes-no questions, like did he know where he was (she answered her own question without giving him a chance to raise his hand—Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, SICU) and was he feeling any pain?

He shook his head to her latter question.

He wanted water. It occurred to him that his mouth was dry, and once that thought appeared it was all he could think about, and his thirst increased with every passing second until he was so desperate that he seriously considered getting out of bed in search of the nearest faucet. Shawn gave the nurse a meaningful look and tried to reach up and point to his mouth, but his left arm felt too heavy, and his right arm was functionally trapped under a blanket.

“I know you’re thirsty,” the nurse said kindly. “Don’t worry, it’s normal. But you’re on a ventilator, which means you can’t drink anything because there’s a risk of aspiration. You could accidentally choke. We have you on IV fluids, so you won’t get dehydrated, okay?”

Shawn narrowed his eyes at her, took in her Latina features—long dark hair tied back, sunkissed skin, chocolate brown eyes. Her ID badge said Katherine. She seemed trustworthy.

But he was thirsty, and dehydrated or not, he was dying—of dry mouth.

“I know,” she said again. “We can swab your mouth with something wet, make you feel better. You won’t be able to drink anything, though.”

Without waiting for a by your leave, she left and came back a moment later with a handful of large foil packets, which she set on the overbed table, retaining one to open.

“Mom, Dad,” she said, “this is something you can help with if you want.”

Shawn’s eyes darted towards his parents, who both shifted into attention. Jeez, he wasn’t a helpless little baby…oh. He sort of was. Well, he was grateful everyone in the room had the tact to _not_ mention that little episode he’d had a moment ago.

Katherine, using newly gloved hands, tore open the foil and revealed the stick ends of three long cotton swabs. She pulled one out and set the packet down.

“Okay,” she said. “Shawn, can you open your mouth for me? I’m going to start with the inside of this cheek, get it all moisturized for you.”

She showed Henry and Maddie how to use the swab, one for each side and another for the rest of his mouth, including his tongue. Shawn resisted the urge to suck the wetness from the cotton, instead allowing the nurse to carefully paint every square centimeter of his oral cavity. He closed his eyes and tuned out her warning to be careful around his stitches—now was a time to relish the relief, not worry about scars—and her suggestion that they can give him as much Chapstick as they wanted. He was fine with that, as long as it wasn’t cherry-flavored. Katherine said to try not to swab him every fifteen minutes, that “He needs to rest. Try to not remind him of something we can’t completely fix right now. We will do everything we can to make him as comfortable as possible. He’s going to have thirst no matter what we do. A lot of medications we give cause thirst. Narcotics do it, even anesthesia. So, even giving him a little water won’t do anything. He has to learn to go along with it.”

Great. Shawn was already thirsty again, and here’s Katherine saying to let him suffer. What kind of nurse was she?! A terrible one. He didn’t like her so much anymore. What a bitch.

Someone lightly touched his hair and he jerked away, annoyed, before belatedly realizing it had been his mother’s hand. He couldn’t apologize by leaning into it because she had already withdrawn. Oh well.

But despite the discomfort, his bone-deep exhaustion was pulling him towards sleep. Since he knew he wouldn’t convince anyone to break the nurse’s dumb rules, he let sleep engulf him, the low chatter of Katherine’s voice fading.

…

Shawn learned later that that had been the first time he had been awake for more than a minute or two and had been able to recognize where he was and who was with him, the first time he had been able to understand and attempt to communicate with the nurse. Of all people, it was Detective Carlton Lassiter, whose purpose for visiting Shawn was unable to ascertain unless it was because the man actually cared for him, who had filled in some missing pieces for him:

One of Henry’s neighbors had witnessed the kidnapping and called 911, but by the time the SBPD had arrived, the abduction had already taken place. Henry and Shawn’s phones, wallets, and keys were left in the house. The neighbor had not seen the plate number of the van that had squealed out of the driveway and careened down the street, narrowly missing mailboxes. Of course police had combed the house for clues, as well as both their past cases for any possible suspects, but they had come up with nothing. Within twenty-two hours, however, a park ranger in Los Padres had contacted them about Henry’s SOS, and they had converged upon the area. No sign of the van, but the culprit was found dead, and one victim dying.

While Henry was stuck riding an ambulance to the nearest hospital, Shawn had been airlifted, and police secured the scene, an abandoned ranger station left outfitted with a ham radio in case lost hikers found their way to it. Aboard the chopper, Shawn had suffered a seizure and vomited, aspirating it into his lungs before medics had been able to turn him on his side, which led to the development of his pneumonia, and the reason for his intubation. Doctors had kept him sedated since he was in and out of surgery for the first several days—surgical intervention for a fractured cheekbone, stitching together the many lacerations across his back as well as a deep cut on the inside of his cheek and the split on the back of his scalp, debridement and grafting of his burns—and all the rest—his trauma- and drug-induced bouts of paranoia, ICU delirium, feverish attempts to pull out his respirator and tear off his bandages and escape—Shawn didn’t hear because he fell asleep, and when he woke up again Lassiter had been replaced by Gus.

Since being weaned off sedation, Shawn experienced many more firsts, like the first time he was awake for a bandage change. Well, the first time he was awake and didn’t think he was being skinned alive by vultures—this time he understood that the nurses were taking care of him. But still, he couldn’t help the feeling that _it_ was happening all over again, couldn’t stop the traumatic memories from overwhelming his rationality. The sobbing gave him an excuse to squeeze his eyes shut; he couldn’t even bear to look at himself, to see what Burgess had done to him—the horrible mass of butane burns, the uneven myriad of lacerations and still-yellow-blue-purple-black-brown-green bruises left over from bony fists and a rubber whip. He couldn’t stand the sight of any of it. So he closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else but _here_ or _there_.

And when it was over, Shawn pretended that his bad reaction had been because the staff had forgotten to replenish his morphine drip, and he refused to look at the abundant supply of it being steadily delivered into his system via the IV.

…

Shawn received a steady stream of visitors, and gifts from those who weren’t able to come as often as they wished they could. Maddie and Gus were of course veritably omnipresent, and Juliet visited when she had the time off. Sometimes she managed to drag Lassiter along. Henry seemed to try to avoid Shawn whenever possible, though his mother always seemed to have an excuse ready: his father’s medications made him too groggy; Henry had gone down to the station to give his statement; he had gone fishing for local halibut so he could cook up a treat for Shawn when the ventilator finally came out; Chief Vick had called him and asked for help on a case; Henry wanted to clean the house in preparation for Shawn’s eventual discharge, etc. Shawn tried not to think about it.

Instead, he looked at all the colorful things nurses would deliver to his room, which his visitor of the day would pack up and deliver to his dad’s house for safekeeping. There was always an influx of flowers, cards, candies (which he couldn’t even eat) and well-wishes (Get well soon! See you around, Shawn! Hope you feel better. Hurry and get better!) from various people he’d known over the years—coworkers, clients, one-night stands, the churro guy. He even received a small white unaddressed envelope with just a penny in it. People brought him books and magazines (the Jonas Brothers are making a comeback? Psh!) to entertain him when he wasn’t swimming through drug-induced slumbers. Gus brought his laptop and some DVDs to marathon—they watched _CHiPs_ and _Knight Rider_ , and were planning their next binge. Maddie had also brought him his phone, which he used to watch YouTube videos when he couldn’t sleep after visiting hours and to respond to personal well-wishes. When Juliet spent time with him, she brought updates on the crime community and the latest bullpen gossip, and Shawn would sometimes be clearheaded enough to make leaps of logic about cases and people that astounded her, scrawling short notes on the mini whiteboard Gus had bought him.

The whiteboard continued to be useful even after he was extubated. His throat was sore, but also the inside of his cheek—the side with the stitches—got in the way of his teeth if he wasn’t careful while speaking, resulting in teary bouts of pain when he accidentally bit down. Sometimes people had trouble understanding his croaky voice, and his abrupt changes of topic and occasional drugged slurring made it all the more difficult to decipher his speech. Except for Henry, who seemed to have been a dentist in a past life, though his visits were rarer than most.

When Shawn was moved out of SICU and into a more private room, Henry’s visits become a little more frequent, and the younger Spencer slowly came to realize that his father must have hated the SICU more than he wanted to support Shawn—which he could understand, given his own experiences with the delirium and what was probably, at that point, PTSD. It was hard not to think of any gathering of more than three medical professionals as a kettle of vultures. But as Shawn and his voice regained strength, the more doctors weaned him off the narcotics, and he had fewer nightmares and panic attacks. Always a plus.

But as lucidity and coherence reigned, anxiety increased as well. He worried about scarring. A few times Shawn had tried to use the front-facing camera on his iPhone as a mirror, but each time he found he couldn’t bring himself to actually look. When he asked his mom if it was bad, she responded that it wasn’t—but also said that if the scars bothered him, they could always opt for cosmetic surgery when he healed up. So Shawn wasn’t sure how bad _bad_ was.

Shawn also worried about when the police were going to ask for his statement, and how much information they would want Shawn to divulge. One of his first spoken questions since hospitalization, he had asked his father, who replied that Chief Vick was keeping the hounds at bay until Shawn was well enough.

Which didn’t make him feel any better. _I mean, ‘hounds at bay’_? he thought, mentally shaking his head.

Shawn spent a few weeks being poked and prodded to ensure that his burns in particular were healing correctly, being helped to roll over so his back could heal, using bedpans, and pretending that he was okay. A physical therapist came every other day to stretch him out like taffy. His strong but gentle hands would guide Shawn’s limbs into gymnastics positions, always stopping just short of breaking bones—or so it felt. The exercises were painful, but Shawn did his best to bear them out, knowing that if they weren’t done, his scars would tighten and result in limited mobility. Sleeping after PT sessions was the easiest way to avoid the pain associated with flexing aching, searing muscles; so Shawn took to lying still and at least pretending he was tired, though usually he was and often drifted off into dreamland.

As the days progressed, he became livelier and more involved in conversations, back to making 80s pop references and quips. And still it wasn’t until his last day, the day before discharge, that someone from the SBPD came to take his statement.

That someone was Lassiter.

When he came Shawn was sitting up in bed, idly doodling on the whiteboard. A dinosaur couple were having a picnic under a starry sky, one commenting that they had picked a great night to watch the meteor shower. A huge red scribble, their impending doom, approached from one corner. Lassiter raised an eyebrow at it but said nothing, waiting for Shawn to finish his masterpiece and look up.

Shawn capped his marker and glanced toward the door, expecting Juliet’s arrival.

“It’s just me today, Spencer,” Lassiter said. “Chief Vick sent me to take your statement.”

_Talk about dropping a bombshell_ , Shawn thought. But if he was startled his face made no indication.

When he said nothing, Lassiter cleared his throat. “Someone else can come and take the statement if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Your bedside manner has dramatically improved, Lassie.” Shawn smirked. “Maybe I should get kidnapped more often if this is…” He trailed off at the awkward pinch between Lassiter’s eyebrows. This time Shawn cleared his throat. “Have you already taken Henry’s statement?”

“Yes. He stopped by the station three weeks ago. We need yours. It’s possible you saw something Henry and the neighbor missed. It would help us catch the perp.”

“Perps,” Shawn corrected automatically, enunciating the plural. Then he remembered that one of them was dead, and that was why Lassiter had used the singular.

Lassiter sat back and pulled out his notepad and clicky-top pen. “How many attackers?”

“Two.”

He nodded, frowning slightly. “Can you walk me through what happened that day? Start at your father’s house,” he said, before Shawn could start singing “I’m Just a Kid” by Simple Plan or “When Will My Life Begin?” from Disney’s _Tangled_. 

Shawn sighed dramatically and tossed the marker up with a spin. Instead of catching it, it hit his hand and careened off the edge of the bed, clattering on the floor. Shawn grimaced with disappointment, and Lassiter looked unimpressed.

“You’re at your dad’s house,” Lassiter prompted.

“Yeah, fine,” Shawn said. “Unwillingly, I might add. He forced me to have dinner with him at his house in exchange for my old baseball cards. I think I have a 1983 Tony Gwynn somewhere. So, of course, we start arguing, and I try to escape—er, storm out. Right when I walk through, _BLAM_! Tasered. Next thing I know, my dad is army crawling toward me with his gun, but a guy comes up behind him. Smashes his head in with a crowbar. _BOOM_! Out cold. KO’d. Fatality. The other guy comes in through the front door and closes it, and he points a gun at me, like, ‘Get up!’”

Shawn extended his arm, fingers in the shape of a pistol, and sneered, acting out the abduction as Lassiter solemnly watched and took shorthand notes.

“I tried to stop the bleeding but they wouldn’t let me,” Shawn continued, still holding the imaginary gun to someone’s head. “They made me empty my pockets first, then my dad’s. I had to comply, but I hid Henry’s pocketknife. I only pretended to pull everything out. They didn’t check. They didn’t notice. But Henry still had his pocketknife in the left pocket.

“Then they made me help carry him out to the van in the driveway. He’s super heavy. But they yelled at me like it’s _my_ fault the man ate a whole rack of ribs and a baked potato with all the toppings. After we climbed into the back of the van, they tied us both up and locked us in. It was kind of dark. No windows. They got in the front and peeled out of the driveway. Probably did a couple of donuts, by the feel of it.”

“Can you describe the attackers?”

Shawn rubbed his nose. “One was masked the whole time. He was in charge. The other dude was some jerk on steroids—or heroin—who smelled like onions and looked like Steve Buscemi.”

Lassiter scribbled. “Can you describe the van?”

“Gray. Windowless. Dent on the bumper. License plate 6TRJ244.”

The detective looked surprised. “That’s…very helpful, actually.” He repeated the plate number back to make sure it was correct. “Okay. So you were abducted from Henry’s house, taken in a van. Did they make any stops before Los Padres?”

Shawn shrugged. “Stop lights, I guess.”

“What happened next?”

“Drove for a long time. I tried to wake my dad up, used my plaid shirt to try and stop the bleeding on his head. But he couldn’t stay awake for more than a minute or two. Then we were at the shack. Cabin. Place. Whatever. They made me help carry him inside. Then they tied me to the radiator and gagged me. After they tied Dad in the chair, they left. I don’t think it was too long after that that he finally woke up.”

“And what did he do?”

“Tried to get free. I _tried_ to warn him about the camera in the room, but _nooo_. Anyway, he kept moving, so the baddies knew he was awake, which is what they were waiting for…Wait. Why don’t you just use the camera footage? Why do I need to give my statement?”

“It wasn’t recording. There was just a display.”

Shawn visibly deflated.

Lassiter resisted the urge to cringe. “Sorry…Do you need a few minutes?”

The younger man shook his head, rubbing the tip of his finger along the slightly raised scarring on his wrist.

“Better to get it over with, right? Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

“Sure.”

“Buscemi guy came and revealed his identity. Typical evil monolog, sob story. Freaky stuff.”

“What about the masked man?”

“He wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know if he left or what, but I only saw him again once—well, twice, actually, when Buscemi guy took me out and back inside again.”

Lassiter waited for him to continue, then gently—as was possible for him—prompted him, “Can you take me through what happened at the ranger station?”

“You mean how I got my boo-boos?”

“Yes,” he conceded the terminology.

Shawn touched his hair and face uncomfortably, as though he were itching but reluctant to scratch, fingering the surgical stitches near his temple where they had fixed his cheekbone. Lassiter was strangely patient. It was a little irksome. He felt the childish urge to push Lassiter’s buttons, but he was honest-to-god drawing a blank. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Usually he could get on the detective’s nerves in a matter of seconds—all he had to do was enter a room or breathe in his general direction—a snide comment, an annoying quip, an animal noise— _something_. What the hell?

Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn noticed Lassiter tug at his tie. So, he was feeling the heat, too.

“I can come back later,” Lassiter offered. “Or send someone else, if you’d prefer.”

A strand of an idea niggled in his mind. Shawn grasped at it. “There was a camera in the room. You could just find the footage.”

Lassiter blinked, shook his head slightly. “There is no footage,” he said. “It wasn’t recording, only displaying a picture on a monitor in the other room.”

Shawn felt like they had already gone over that. “Oh.” He sighed. “Okay, look, there’s not much to tell that the evidence photos and my dad don’t. The guy beat me up, he—we—he, like, whipped me with something, and then he flambéed my ass.”

He picked at his blunt nails. As soon as they had grown out a little, his mother had filed down the ragged edges, which kept snagging on his blankets and sending sharp pains down his fingers and into his arms and up to shoulders. Why did they have to keep the hospital so cold that he needed the kind of blankets that caught his nails, anyway?

“How did your dad get free?”

Shawn relaxed a modicum at the question, coming back to less horrible territory.

“Buscemi guy left me unattended, so I dragged myself over to him and got his pocketknife out, gave it to him. Dad cut himself free, I guess. I was a little too busy impersonating a crème brûlée. Don’t remember anything after that, really.”

“Okay. Spencer, can you think of anything that might help us find or identify the missing perp? Now we have a plate number to run, but he could have ditched the van first chance he got.”

Shawn started to shake his head, but then stopped, suddenly remembering something. He subconsciously lifted a finger to his temple, eyebrow cocked.

_Masked man extends the gun, pointing it directly at his head. His shirt sleeve rides up slightly, revealing mottled skin._

“The masked guy,” he said. “He has a skin condition. The kind the one model has.”

Lassiter stared at him blankly.

“Uhhh…Blotchy skin. Different colors. Like those stupid sexy jeans that kids wear with the holes everywhere and all splashed up with bleach.”

Recognition sparked in blue eyes. “Vitiligo?”

“Gesundheit.”

“No, it’s…”

Lassiter whisked out his phone, typed into the browser, and turned the screen so Shawn could see the Google Images results, which displayed several profiles and hands exhibiting the contrasting pigmentation.

“Oh, yeah, that,” Shawn said.

The detective wrote it down. “Could you see the color of his skin? Dark, light?”

“A bit of both. That’s what vertigo means.”

“Vitiligo. I mean, which one seemed predominant? Could he have been African American, Caucasian?”

Shawn considered the question, searching his memories for any other flash of skin, the shape of his face behind the ski mask, anything.

“Dunno…But he smokes Marlboro cigarettes and has a small pet—maybe a cat.”

Lassiter frowned and opened his mouth, but then shakes his head as though to say he gave up on how Spencer deduced such trivial information. Shawn counted it as a win.

He shifted with discomfort, pinching the blankets and raising them a couple of inches to take pressure off his burns. It was especially uncomfortable around the crease of his groin.

Of course, Lassiter noticed. “If you remember anything else,” he said, flipping his notebook closed and pocketing it, “you have my number.”

“So call you maybe?”

“Please don’t start singing.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Before taking his leave, Lassiter went to the other side of the bed and wordlessly retrieved Shawn’s marker for him. Shawn waited until he was gone to erase the whiteboard with the corner of his blanket, then began a new drawing.

…

When Henry arrived a few hours later, Shawn was drowsing on the reclined bed, lying on his side and supporting his head on his arm. He opened his eyes and watched sleepily as his father took the seat on the side of the bed he was facing and opened a kaleidoscope-colored canvas tote bag that Shawn knew belonged to Maddie. Henry pulled some Tupperware and utensils out and placed them on the overbed table, which he pulled closer to himself. Although his arms had healed, the new skin was still tight and his muscles ached if he stretched too far. He could definitely use a couple of Shawn’s PT sessions.

Shawn could smell the food through the plastic, and saw it through the condensation inside. “Ooh,” he murmured. “Pork chops. Is this to celebrate my last night in this torture chamber?”

Henry snorted. “I made too much for your mother and me and she insisted I bring the rest to you. Always gets her way.”

Which Shawn knew was Henry’s way of saying that he had cooked enough for Shawn and insisted that Maddie take a shower and get an early night while he delivered.

“You up to eat now?” Henry asked gruffly.

Shawn prodded his stomach in inquiry. “I could eat,” he said, when he did not receive a negative from his body.

While Henry set up his plate, Shawn rolled gingerly onto his back in a slow, practiced manner, and then found the button to raise the bed. He moved his head pillow down to the foot of the bed and adjusted his back pillow for better support. He shifted his burned leg to the side, trying to avoid painful, quasi-inevitable friction. Once he had situated himself, Henry swiveled the table within easy reach for him and handed him a fork.

The pork chops, doused in gravy, had already been cut into bite-sized pieces for him and the corn had been sliced off the cob. Green beans and carrots were also on the plate.

Shawn’s mouth watered. A home cooked meal was always an improvement on the prison food they served in the hospital. No contest.

He dug in.

Henry sat back comfortably in his chair, pulling his reading glasses and a fishing magazine out of the tote bag. As he rifled through in search of his place, he warned Shawn to slow down or he’d be in the hospital for another week with an upset stomach.

Shawn slowed, but only to talk. “Lassiter came by earlier.”

“Yeah?” Henry licked his finger and turned a page.

“To take my statement. Finally.”

Henry nodded, having already deduced the reason for the visit.

“He seemed surprised,” Shawn said between bites. “When I said there were two perps.”

A crease appeared between Henry’s eyebrows, and his gaze shot up over the magazine to meet his son’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

Shawn looked at him incredulously. “What do _you_ mean? There were two guys. Like, the whole time. Buscemi guy doesn’t smoke, remember? But it smelled like cigarettes. The other guy.”

Henry’s mind reeled, and the mention of the cigarettes sparked his own memory: there had been a red-white pack of Marlboros on the kitchen counter. Annoyance at his own oversight hardened his frown.

“But, anyway,” Shawn shrugged, “I guess they’ll find him. He had vertigo.”

“What?”

“It’s a skin condition.”

“I think you mean vitiligo, kid.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Henry rolled his eyes and snapped his magazine open.

Shawn ate his dinner.

When he had finished, Henry packed everything up again and fetched the pillow Shawn had tossed to the end of the bed. He gruffly waited to make sure Shawn was comfortable before picking up the bag.

“Your mother and I will come pick you up tomorrow morning. Don’t sleep in.”

Shawn grinned. “Or what? You wouldn’t leave me here.”

Henry scoffed as he passed the threshold, lifting a hand in farewell.

Alone, Shawn decided to call it an early night. He really was tired, after all…


	3. Chapter 3

**Epilog**

The abandoned vehicle had been reported by a pair of hikers, who saw it when they had walked a wide trail towards the ravine. At first they had worried someone was trapped inside, or even dead inside, but first responders quickly determined no signs of occupation and left the wreck in the hands of police, who matched the plate and van description to the one in the Spencer abduction case.

In the back of the van they discovered Shawn’s blood-crusted plaid shirt, and more traces of Henry’s blood, confirming it was the same van. They could find no fingerprints or DNA that would incriminate a possible suspect as Burgess’ partner in crime.

The case went cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I don't know if I set this up for a sequel. But anything is possible. See y'all around!

**Author's Note:**

> You have the coronavirus panic to thank for this story.


End file.
